Author's Notes: It's not fair, I tell you. Jakinson Biles of "Wargs to Live By," instead of accepting a single turn in the spotlight and fading peacefully into the background, as any good minor character would do, conspired to steal my plotbunnies and wouldn't return them until I'd agreed to join him for a few ales and a round of juicy gossip on the Stewards, the military, and the problems of growing up with a Sue. I hope you find the results amusing. As always, I swear to drunk I'm not Eru, Tolkien is.
The Waning Moon's a nice place, Jakinson thought to himself, finishing off another ale. Not that he would sink so low as to personally frequent such a seamy tavern, but the master merchant to the royal steward was willing to drink to the inn's honor. The patrons of the Waning Moon's Haven had made him rich. Old "King" Tamithor Rivermerchant had supplied the training and seed money, and the princess's endorsement had made him respectable, but it was these children, as superstitious and gullible as Jak himself had been before the war, getting pissed and searching for adventure that had really earned Jak his fortune. They got themselves overflowing with liquid courage at the Moon, and then they came over to Jakinson's shop, fire in their bellies and stars in their eyes, asking for a treasure map, or some old tome of legends to quench their other thirst.
Adventure. If it wasn't for the profits that word brought, Jak was sure he would never want to hear it again as long as he lived. Adventures were a nasty piece of work: sleeping on rocks, eating half-burnt, half-raw gamy stew and limp vegetables, if you were lucky, lugging about all your worldly possessions on your back, killing men, killing what were probably decent fellows whom you could probably sell things to if you had met them anyplace else, killing them because otherwise they'd kill you and your mates first. Jakinson had seen many a good man die in the war, and had killed a fair number himself, but that wasn't what the worst part. Adventuring, or at least playing soldier, was as boring as the deepest pits of the Void. You feared that some division of orcs and Mumakil was behind every tree, but they so rarely showed up. Jak, whose nerves were already naturally tense, had nearly broken down with worry during the campaign. Paranoia, they had called it. The Steward's rangers were vigilant and good at what they did, but Jak had seen someone better. If his master's daughter and her Wargs could get past them without them noticing anything, then what could formally trained Haradic spies do? Let the children have their treasure hunts and their war-games. Jak wanted no part in it.
It was profitable, though. Old King Rivermerchant's pointy little nose was probably twitching with envy, if he could smell his former apprentice's profits from whatever corner of the Halls of Mandos greedy businessmen occupied. Jak had affected an eccentric manner, a scruffy beard, (which Lady Chev'yahna seemed to appreciate,) and wore almost nothing these days but the long, travel-stained Dunedain cloaks that the Queen had generously donated, oversize robes, and his old army chain mail. If he kept in character as some warrior-mystic crackpot, the customers seemed more willing to accept a higher premium for the storybooks Jakinson had copied from Lord Faramir's library. There were some advantages to being the master merchant to the royal steward, after all. Jak was not one to pass them up, even if old King Rivermerchant had wanted no more than bragging rights over his daughter marrying the Steward and turning out to be a princess of the old line, after all. Tamithor was as proud as any king, he'd always said, and as stubborn, too, his acquaintances were fond of adding. This "little King" wouldn't accept his son-in-law or stepson's offers of financial aid, so the nickname had been born. The old merchant had always been collecting rare books for his step-granddaughter, though, and Jakinson had turned Tamithor's sources for these volumes into a verifiable gold mine. He still sold a few specialties to the locals, and dabbled in trades with a couple of old army buddies, but Jakinson Biles knew a good thing when he saw it, and books were definitely it. Jak just wished he could mass-produce them. Books could be rather expensive to make, and they were worth a mint to buy, even from friends. Despite this setback, Jak knew he would get by even better than King Rivermerchant had ever dreamed of. Jakinson possessed Biles instincts, Rivermerchant techniques, and, best of all, Hurin connections.
Whether or not this Aragorn Elessar actually had any claim to the throne was irrelevant now. His "sister" might well be a pretender, he himself might be, but Elessar wore the crown and Denethor's sons supported him. Jakinson did not understand what use the steward-princes would have for such a strong-willed puppet, but the merchant did not doubt their ability to use him, if that was indeed their plan. Still, Faramir, the one who really had the wiliness to usurp the crown's power without anyone noticing, stayed mostly in his providence, and Boromir, whose smallest whim could turn the hearts of the army against the king, stayed in his. Maybe they just needed a buffer. The brothers had been close during the reign of their father, but after Denethor burned himself alive in a fit of madness, Jakinson could understand if they no longer fully trusted each other. Jak personally had his doubts about the King of Gondor's "Boarhound" - so called for his unswerving faithfulness and deadly directness, especially in regards to tracking down and destroying his family's enemies and dangers to the King, as well as for his belligerence-prophesying name and camaraderie with the Wargs – ever becoming capable of ruling behind the throne, even if he remained in Minas Tirith to do so, but he did not count Boromir as incapable of taking over the throne himself, should he ever decide he was tired of playing the obvious second fiddle to a former ranger.
The man let Tasana rule him, though, for the Valar's sakes. She was a fine woman, all things told, but like most women, the girl was stark raving mad. His master's daughter had always said she ran away to the forest to live amongst the Wargs, but she could have picked up those giant mongrels that always followed her about any old place. More likely she had been off meeting with her paramour all those years. Everyone knew that the Steward had put off marrying her until she had gotten knocked up. Their daughter was born not even seven months into their marriage. Maybe they just enjoyed flaunting their status, but really, Jak was embarrassed to admit that he had grown up with her sometimes.
And of all the adventure-seeking kids Jak had ever sold a single purchase to, Chev'yahna's daughter and nephew were the worst of the bunch. Especially that pointy-eared Eldarion boy. So his father had won a kingdom and the prettiest elven maid to wife by his own hands, the lad ought to just accept his position and quit it with this silly filial jealousy for paternal achievements. But the child simply insisted upon running wild and getting his sisters and cousins involved in his antics. If he had been in Jakinson's care, he would have tanned that elven hide of his, but as prince of the realm, Eldarion was beyond the merchant's control. All Jak could do was make special note of what books he sold the boy and send word through his uncles. Jakinson thanked the Valar once again that he had no children of his own to drive him mad; Tasana's royal brood was more than enough to do so, thank you very much.
There was the matter of the shop, then, of course. It had been in the Rivermerchant family for generations until Tamithor had found himself without a son. It might have probably gone to Tasana, had she wedded someone less wealthy than the Boarhound himself. Jak supposed he ought to be thankful to the steward's plot for that much, at least. Otherwise he would have gone through all those fearful years of apprenticeship for nothing, just a lesser half in a partnership or a military career. As to who would inherit it after Jak, well, there was still time to consider that question. Perhaps some little street vendor would have a son who needed an apprenticeship. That's how Jak had gotten it, and Talasen the Rivermerchant, King Tamithor's grandfather, before him. Jakinson supposed that maybe someday he might break with his bachelorhood, but that was liable to the day that someone actually showed him viable proof for the return of the king.